Untouchable
by Kouri Arashi
Summary: Shinra was neutral in all conflicts: a medical Switzerland of sorts.  Introspective Shinra fic, some Shinra/Celty


_Untouchable_

_Rated: PG-13_

_Genre: Introspective/character study_

_Spoilers: Not really? I mean, not anything you wouldn't learn in the first four episodes of the anime._

_Characters: Mostly Shinra, some Celty_

_Summary: I spent too much time thinking about what makes Shinra tick, and before I knew it, this fic popped out._

One of Shinra's earliest memories was learning how to color from an anatomy book. His father was very specific about the colors. Arteries were red, veins were blue. Guts were green and brown. Other things were pink or yellow or purple, depending on what his father told him. Shinra sat at his father's elbow and listened intently. While other children learned how to spell 'cat' and 'ball', he was learning 'esophagus' and 'trachea', and more importantly, the difference between the two and why it was never a good idea to confuse them.

His first dissection was at the age of four, which was, of course, Celty. The event stuck with him so vividly that he dreamed about it for years. This was somewhat unfortunate, being in that Celty's anatomy was quite different from regular human anatomy, and as dissections went, was not particularly typical.

By the time he was eight, he was routinely assisting his father in surgery; by the time he was thirteen, his father was letting him take the lead on certain cases. Schoolwork became peripheral. Celty practically had to tie him to a chair to get him to do his literature and history homework. It all seemed so useless to him. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

The first time someone died on Shinra's operating table was when he was fifteen. He had nightmares for weeks, and admitted it to nobody. He could not imagine the ridicule he would receive from his father if he did so.

He waited it out. The memory faded.

* * *

"Hey, what do you think? How do I look?" Shinra asked excitedly, displaying his new white coat.

Celty held up her PDA. 'Like you're begging to be arrested for malpractice.'

* * *

It was true that he had never attended a day of medical school in his life. He hadn't even been to college. It was completely unnecessary. His father had been teaching him for so long that he could have graduated in a day. Despite Celty's jibe, he was more than competent enough to join the ranks of the licensed. Of course, that wasn't where his interest lay.

As Ikebukuro's most well-known underground doctor, he was called on for all sorts of things that the average doctor never saw. He enjoyed that. His father had taught him not only medical knowledge but drilled into him a love of the unusual and unnatural.

Celty worried about him sometimes, and it was true that in the beginning, he was sometimes afraid. The people he worked for did not forgive mistakes. They would not tolerate failure.

(neither did his father, and neither did he)

Shinra made it clear from the beginning with all his clients that he was a doctor, not a miracle worker. He was paid in advance, always, regardless of the outcome. He did not judge. He worked for whoever paid him. If there was a gang war, he would doctor whichever side called him first.

His integrity, such as it was, was impeccable.

He was neutral in all conflicts: a medical Switzerland of sorts. He could be trusted. He never spilled secrets. He did his best regardless of whether his patient was a child or a child molester. He did not get involved. He kept his nose clean and his hands cleaner.

There were those who thought that they could use him, or force him, or intimidate him. Gang leaders who said they would kill him if he treated people from the other side. Yakuza who tried to bribe him into refusing to do plastic surgery on a member who was fleeing their ranks. Police officers who threatened to imprison him if he would not give them information about his clients.

They got one warning. Nobody had needed a second.

Gradually, he became fearless. He was neutral, and that made him untouchable. It was a giddy feeling, a mad sort of exhilaration.

(he had seen it before. caused by a release of adrenaline and dopamine by the body's nervous system when it was caught in an untenable position; a thwarted sort of fight or flight reaction. it never ended well for his patients, and somewhere in the back of his mind, shinra did not truly expect that it would end well for him either)

He did not fear death. He lived with death, and he loved her.

It had not yet occurred to him that there were other things to fear.

That nobody was untouchable.

* * *

Shinra eyed the body on the floor. She had been badly beaten, whoever she was. There wasn't much blood; all the bleeding had been internal. He knelt beside her and gently turned her head. Her skin was cold. "She's dead," he said. "Has been for hours, probably."

The man who had called him looked at her. He looked at Shinra. "Do something," he said. "I called you here to help her."

"She's dead," Shinra repeated. "I can't help her."

He was quite the character, this young man. Dressed all in black, clothes artfully ripped to reveal tattoos, blonde streaks dyed in his hair. The only color he was wearing was a red sash that he had tied around his waist. Shinra couldn't remember if there was a gang around that wore red right now. He had stopped paying attention to the color gangs around the same time he had graduated from high school.

"Help her!" the punk insisted.

"I can't," Shinra said, standing up and brushing the dirt off his knees.

"Help her, damn it!" The man pulled out a gun and leveled it at Shinra's face.

Shinra looked at the muzzle of the gun, that very black circle that was aimed just underneath his eye, wobbling madly as the man's hands shook. "She's dead."

(the bullet would leave the gun traveling at an insane rate of speed. it would smash through his cheekbone and into his brain. it might go straight through, but it also might hit the back of his skull and bounce. either way, the odds of survival were practically nil)

"I know you can help her, everyone says you're the best damned doctor in this city, now do something! Do something! Do something!" He was screaming now.

Shinra's gaze never left the man's face. "She's dead. I can't."

The man said nothing. His chest heaved for breath, his hands trembled. Tears started down his cheeks.

Shinra's tone softened. "I'm sorry."

(who was she, then, his lover? his sister? didn't matter)

"Ah – ah – " The man went to his knees. He crossed his arms over his chest, as if he were trying to hold himself together.

Shinra took out the stack of cash that he had already been given: prepaid, in advance, like always. Regardless of the outcome. He took enough to cover his cab fare and then dropped the rest on the ground next to the young man, and walked out.

* * *

He took his oath as a doctor very seriously, even though he had never sworn it specifically. He had read the Hippocratic oath, and agreed with most of it, but not all. As an unlicensed doctor, ethics had never been drilled into him with much vigor. His father had taught him one hard and fast rule of being a doctor: try not to kill anybody unless you mean it.

Shinra had expanded it a little, but not much. His life philosophy, simply put, was 'save as many lives as you can, and try not to fuck up too much'.

That was part of where being neutral came in. He would save anybody, regardless of who they were, under that basic tenet. He was a doctor and it was his job to save people. If they were back on the streets trying to get themselves killed again the next day, that wasn't his business. If they hurt somebody else, he would try to save that person. He was not responsible for anybody's actions beyond his own.

'Where's the line?' Celty asked. 'Where does neutrality end?'

Shinra just shrugged the question off. If there was a line, something he was not willing to do, a person he was not willing to save, he hadn't found it yet. He supposed it was true that some things bothered him more than others. He disliked helping people he knew were murderers. It grated his nerves to patch up somebody knowing that the people who had hired him were only trying to increase his patient's value on the slave market. He got irritated when he had to put the same person back together over and over again because they cared so little for their own well-being. And he thought that plastic surgery, in most cases, was for vacuous twits. Celty was beautiful, and she didn't even have a head; how was liposuction going to help these people?

He was neutral because he had to be neutral, because being neutral was the only thing that kept him alive and at least mostly sane.

* * *

Her name was Harima Mika.

Switzerland or no, it had been a kick to the stomach when Yagiri Namie had slapped down that photograph of Celty's head in a jar and said 'make her look like that'. He had pressed the issue, only slightly, enough to put some of the pieces together. Enough to know that this girl wanted the surgery, that she was supposed to be dead. Enough to know that the Yagiri family was twisted beyond even his comprehension.

(in a jar, they were keeping it in a jar, like a fish on display or a cadaver being preserved. what was that liquid, anyway? was it necessary? how had they gotten her head to begin with? how did they)

"Her name is Celty," Shinra said, quietly, to Harima Mika as the sedatives were taking hold.

He concentrated then, focusing on the schematics of the bones, the differences between Harima's cheeks and Celty's, the adjustments he needed to make, the fine detail of that beautiful, sleeping face.

(he was remote, he was neutral. he was switzerland. he was kishitani shinra and he was untouchable.)

"Contact lenses," he said to Namie, when the surgery was complete. "She'll need contact lenses. Blue-green ones."

"How do you know?" Namie asked. She looked at the photograph. The eyes were closed. The eyes had always been closed.

"It just seems right," Shinra said, with a shrug.

"Hm," Namie said.

He gave them instructions on how to monitor Harima as she came out from under the sedation, then got a taxi home. Celty was there, typing away at her laptop; she waved as he came in. He greeted her cheerfully, made some comment about things they needed to pick up at the store, hung up his coat. Then he went into the bathroom, where he was quietly, thoroughly, viciously sick.

* * *

Shinra double-checked the address he had gotten on the e-mail he had received as he got out of the taxi. It had taken him into a high-class neighborhood, to a luxury apartment building. There was no apartment number as part of the e-mail. He paid the taxi driver and got out, considering what to do. It would have been easier if Celty had brought him, but Celty was out of town, chasing down one of the many elusive leads to her head. Shinra didn't begrudge her the search, but being in that he knew exactly where the head was, sometimes he wanted to try to rein her in. Just say 'it's not in Shibuya; please stay home tonight.' But he couldn't say that to her. For a variety of reasons.

The doorman let him into the building. He adjusted his glasses and looked around. A man in a suit came out of the elevator and said, "Kishitani-sensei?" and he confirmed that he was. "This way, please."

They went into a back hallway. The man in the suit went through several doors and then down a small staircase, into a parking garage. The walk passed in silence. Shinra, who was always so chatty with his friends, rarely talked to his clients beyond what was necessary for the job. He didn't want to be close to them. The less he knew about his patient, the better.

"This way," the man repeated, as they continued into the parking garage. It was quite large, especially for Tokyo, and most of the cars there were luxury cars that probably hadn't been driven in months. Shinra followed him to an area that had been draped with plastic, presumably for some pretense of sterility.

There was a man lying on the floor who was bleeding from several gunshot wounds. Another man stood behind him, this one older, his face a study in cold indifference. Behind him, a younger man was on his knees with his hands behind his head. Shinra ignored the unwounded men and went over to the one who needed his attention.

"Wait," the cold man said, and beckoned him over.

"I have work to do," Shinra said. "It looks like there isn't much time left."

The cold man grabbed the one who was kneeling by the hair and dragged him closer to Shinra. "This is the doctor," he said. "Wish him luck. If he fails and my friend here dies, you're the one who's going to pay for it."

The captive sobbed and shivered and managed to say something vaguely appropriate to Shinra. Shinra looked at the cold man and asked, "Can I get to work now?"

"Go ahead," the man said.

Shinra set down his bag and got out his tools. He could see from the beginning that it was hopeless. The man had been shot three times; twice in the chest and once in the stomach. It was really a wonder that he wasn't already dead. It was quite a mess, and there was no way that he was in time.

(perhaps if they hadn't taken the time to take the wounded man to a hidden place, and prep the area? but even then shinra was fairly sure there was no way he would have survived, and there was certainly no purpose in mentioning that to his client)

He was a doctor and he took his oath seriously, so he did his best to save the dying man as he bled out into the folds of the plastic sheets. He managed to extract one of the bullets, but it was only fifteen minutes before the man shuddered and went still. Shinra checked his pulse to be sure, then looked up at the men surrounding him and said, "He's dead. There's nothing I can do."

"That's fine," the cold man said.

Shinra got to his feet. He was startled when, a bare moment later, the man took out a gun and shot their captive in the stomach. The noise echoed in the confines of the huge garage. The younger man crumpled backwards, crying out in pain and fear, holding his hands against the wound. The splash of blood went everywhere; a tiny blotch hit Shinra's cheek.

Shinra started forward.

The cold man aimed the gun at him. "No. You stay where you are."

Shinra gave him a blank, even look. "You hired me knowing who I am. I don't take sides. There's a wounded man and I will help him."

"He's hardly an innocent. He's responsible for the death of your patient."

"I don't care. That's not how this works." Shinra started forward again. The cold man stepped up and pressed the muzzle of the gun into his throat. All the while, the injured man writhed on the floor. Shinra looked down at him. Stomach wounds were slow, painful ways to die. Even if he helped, the outcome wouldn't be pretty. He could still die of sepsis, or suffer from other complications. The wounded man stared back up. He looked surprised, almost bewildered, as blood started to pool around his body.

(they always looked surprised. shinra was never surprised. he knew what death looked like, whether it was dressed up as a bullet or a germ or a woman in black)

"Let me go. You've taught him a lesson enough."

"The lesson isn't just for him, sensei," the cold man said. "It's also for you. So you know the price of failing me."

(he was neutral, he was remote, he)

"Let me go," Shinra said. "Right now. Or shoot me. Decide."

(was angry as hell)

He pushed forward again. They struggled. The gun slid away from his neck. He pressed his thumb into the man's hand, breaking his grip. His

(who did they think they were dealing)

grasp of anatomy was flawless; he was not strong but he knew exactly where and how to hurt somebody. He turned and gave the man a quick jab in the solar plexus

(that one he had learned from celty)

and simultaneously slammed the heel of his foot down on the other man's instep. He broke free and for one moment felt that same old exhilaration bleeding back into his system

(he was untouchable)

and then three more men piled on him and pinned him down to the floor. His face pressed into the cold plastic and the colder concrete below it, and he could not even so much as twitch as he watched the young man bleed out onto the floor in front of him. He could do nothing.

It took a very long time.

When the man finally shuddered and went still, the cold man gestured. "Let him up," he said, and the men released Shinra. He got to his feet. The little splash of blood on his cheek was starting to dry. He adjusted his glasses, went over to the dead man, and checked his pulse. He knelt beside him for a few moments, feeling the blood soak into the knees of his pants. Then he stood up.

"We never do business again," he said, turned around, and walked away.

(it wasn't enough)

When he got outside, he looked around for a taxi, but didn't see one. Before he could even think about being frustrated, Celty pulled up. He looked at her in surprise. She looked back, taking in the bloodstains on his pants, the splash on his face. She held up the PDA. 'Are you ok?'

"Why are you here?" he asked.

'You weren't home when I got there. It's not like you to be out so late. You left your e-mail open.'

Shinra wanted to twirl and jump and ask Celty if she had actually been worried about him. He wanted to shower and wanted to cry and wanted to vomit. "I'm fine," he said. "I learned a valuable lesson today."

'Oh? What was it?'

For a few moments, Shinra fought to articulate. What had he learned, exactly? The lesson hadn't only been for the dead man, after all. Was it that people could not always be trusted to be honorable? No, he knew that already. Was it that they wouldn't follow his rules? No, he had known that too. Was it that he couldn't save everybody? No. He had known that for a long time. It wasn't death. He knew death, and it would never surprise him. He lived with death, and he loved her.

"I learned where neutrality ends," he finally said.

Celty regarded him for a long minute. She could read him just as well as he could read her, and under his blank expression, she could see the anger and the grief, the emotional wounds that were still sluggishly bleeding, like the man in the garage.

'I'll be right back,' she said.

Shinra sat down and waited for her. The garage had been well-insulated. No one had heard the shot. He didn't hear the screams, but he knew they were there all the same. He didn't feel happy about it, but there was a sense of rightness, of his world returning to the way it was supposed to be. A different world – one that was colder and a little more bleak – but still his world.

Celty returned a few minutes later. She held up her PDA. 'I'll take you home.'

"Thanks." He got on the bike behind her, wrapped his arms around her, rested his bloody cheek against her shoulder. He closed his eyes and loved her more than ever.

* * *

_A/N: C&C very much appreciated!_


End file.
